Offerings and Acceptance
by fragrantfields
Summary: Alma makes an offer Al Swearengen had promised to accept. Awkwardness abounds as two complicated people try to find a way to come together without their usual facades. Al/Alma, sex, language, weapons, a few laughs
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: More of a project imagining a 4th season of Deadwood**

**Spoilers for Season 3**

**Language is Deadwood language (expect bad language)**

**All**** characters belong to HBO and David Milch. No money being made off this. Liberal liberties have been taken with historical figures.**

**Pairing: Al/Alma, no sex here**

**Set after "Rumors and Truths"**

**Offering and Acceptance**

**Part 1**

He heard the heels of her boots tap-tapping on the boardwalk several seconds before she came in the door. _That's a pissed-off walk_, Dan thought.

"Afternoon, Miz Ellsworth."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dority. Is Mr. Swearengen in?"

"Uh, I'll go see." He came around the bar and went upstairs. She looked in some kind of state but nothing jumped out as a reason why.  
>Alma accepted a cup of tea from Jewel as she waited, foot tapping.<p>

.

"For how long?" Dan looked uncertain, needing information but not wanting to presume.

"I don't know for how long, Dan. Just don't disturb me unless we're burning down again."

""Me" meaning you and the widow."

"Yeah, Dan. Me and the widow. Will hearing that the door may be locked make you throw your skirts over your head and flee in fright?"

"Locked." Dan looked at Al, making sure he heard right.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, she's been sweet as she can be…I mean, for her…but you did, y'know…take care of her first husband. Or had him taken care of, so to speak."

"An incident of which facts, though never actually proven, I believe she is quite aware. Includin' your part in the business. She go around slanderin' your name, glaring at you or the like?"

He thought for a minute. For that type woman, she'd been nothing but nice, didn't seem to be holding no grudge. Did have an edge to her, but Al knew more about women than him, he figured. He hoped _that _was holdin', anyway, Al's ability to head off trouble.

He shrugged. "Okay, boss."

Dan walked to the stairs paused, and then came back.

"You do remember you got a houseful of whores that'd do anything you wanted, without you having to lock the goddamn door."

"I remember. And you got a suspicious turn of mind."

"Humph." Dan huffed as he went down to escort Alma upstairs.

She still seemed as tight as a fiddle string. He hoped to hell Al knew what he was doing.

.

.

Al took a few minutes to order the room and his person. The pitcher of water near his washbasin was full and fresh. Light muslin curtains let the afternoon sun filter in without glare; no need to light the lamps yet. Pillows were arranged to his particular satisfaction over the rich red and saffron bedding that would have befitted a high-end San Francisco brothel.

He looked at the small assortment of pomades and cologne on his dresser, picked up on his trip to Rapid City. Most were scents and oils he had used for years, restocking for his barber's and his own use. His hand moved past those to an unfamiliar bottle that looked out of place with its silver-topped stopper.  
><em><br>Something new,_ he thought. _New for new beginnings_. He poured a few drops of Trumper's Wellington scent onto his comb, raking it through his hair. A mild scent of lemons and orange filled the air, with a warm cedar accord behind it, mixing with the smell of sun-heated skin. Just out in London last year, the clerk had said. A gentleman's fragrance.

He was fairly sure it would take more than a bottle of scent to raise him to that status, but it reminded him of parlors, fine wood furniture polished with lemon oil, and lazy sweat drying on clean skin. Those were pleasant enough memories. He recalled an image of himself back then, looking past the craggy lines to the fresh-faced Albert of twenty-five, clean-shaven and rakish appearance.

He reached for the bottle again, remembering grooming rituals of days past. For old times' sake, he dabbed just a drop on his skin under his clothes, at the juncture of leg and body. If anyone noticed, he figured, they'd already be in a position to have their mind on other things besides why he would scent himself at a whore's pulse points.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

The scent of brewing coffee and the morning's bacon lingered up here on the second floor, mixed with the odor of spilled liquor that had begun seeping into the new floors. Alma ran her hand over the new, slick bannister as she walked upstairs. There was already the beginning of a sticky patina of smoke combined with oils from the hands of clients and women. The floor looked raw and clean yet, no varnish put down in the haste to get the Gem reopened.

Greetings over and Dan back downstairs, Al sat behind his desk, noting the trimmings on her hat were trembling. He could see why Dan had concerns. He motioned for her to start.

"I'd like an honest answer to something." Her fingers were digging into her purse.

His sense of caution increased. "Okay."

"Is it true that you lost your finger because you were trying to protect me from Hearst in some kind of way? That you taunted him about me until he chopped off your finger?"

He nodded once. "You've heard the current talk."

"Please answer my question."

"Alma, I was going to come to _some_ kind of violence to serve as an example long before that night. I _knew _that. Hopin' I could avoid it, sure, but unsurprised that I couldn't. And the matter had to do with the whole of the camp and Hearst's disproportionate need to control everything here, includin' your gold mine. Which is different from it being about _you_."

"But you _did_ taunt him rather than agree to help him take advantage of my interests."

"Well, I would not have had that conversation bandied about the camp, but yes. A last jab before suffering the inevitable. An unwise habit of mine, at times."

She started pacing, heels clicking, pausing at the window, at the door to his room. Her chest was tight, reminding her of constricting corsets and panic.

"So, shall we count up the times you've acted to protect me, and suffered for it?"

"Well, I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. There _are_ those who suffered more than me. Most of the time, I'm sure I had other interests at play besides your wellbeing."

"Look, you want a fuckin' drink?" He opened his drawer, set bottle and glasses between them, and started to pour.

"I just feel that there's a…a terrible imbalance between us. And I've been so beholden to so many men in my life…and—"Her voice began rising.

"Here. Drink this and calm the fuck down, hm?"

She downed her shot quicker than he had expected.

"And there's something that seems to happen between us at times that I find…disturbing."

She lowered her eyes at this. Her eyelids were thin and bruised-looking. He wondered if her thoughts were keeping her from sleeping, or if it just reflected the stress of recent events. He suppressed the smirk that threatened to show on his lips. "Disturbing" was not how he would have described their push-and-pull flirtation, but he could tell she had woven darker threads through their time together than had he.

He raised his eyebrows before getting up and walking to her side of the desk.

"Anything else?"

She would never say this to anyone else. But this man…_apparently there's nothing that he can't handle hearing. _She caught a faint scent of oranges and wood, somehow wholesome and out of place. Her next breath brought her the smell of musk and skin, grounding her to the realities of the room.

"And the last man I…was with…I find I cannot bear to think of him as the last man to ever be…within me." Her mouth twisted. Any pleasant memories had been destroyed by the pain and instruments that had violated her as a result. _And the baby that had been within her for a few short weeks_. It all roiled together inside of her, needing to be placated.

"I would never touch him again, but I would also like to have something…_someone_ else to think of. If I were to…leave this life without marrying again, I can_not_ have that man as my last memory." She swallowed hard and thought about how she must sound. Her ears felt on fire.

"Does that sound mad?"

"Not really." He studied her pale face, a few freckles standing out against her skin. He could tell she was still new enough to this kind of distress that she barely had the language to ask for help.

"You want to fuck him out of your mind…get his taste out of your mouth, so to speak."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I believe that's it."

_Jesus wept, _he thought. _The ramification of their short-lived affair was never goin' to stop. Like a fuckin' force of nature._

__"You know there's not a man in camp that would turn you down, you want a quick roll in the hay to assuage your memory. Younger men, with less…rough histories.

She shook her head. "You, I trust to treat me no differently afterwards. I don't know that about other men. I suspect things would be more a good deal more complicated."

She stood up and braced her hands on the chair between them. The air between them felt heavy and still.

"Recently, you told me that no matter what the circumstances, if I offered you a "free fuck", as you put it, you'd take it and worry about repercussions later. "

Her color was high, her gaze steady.

"I'm offering."

He was already feeling the effects of her offer. Along with that, he felt an uncomfortable feeling of uncertainly as to what to do next. In his imaginings, he hadn't included so much conversation surrounding their coupling. By his nature, more words meant more examination of angles and motives, free offerings meriting the closest examination of all. He watched a slow pink flush travel up Alma's skin from neckline to jaw as he considered.

He made his decision. He realized he had made it when she said she trusted him. Few enough had said that without him deliberately working a long con. A thought, sharp and slightly disappointing, ran through his mind: _she trusted him to not develop softer feelings than he had already shown. Or to not be able to develop such feelings._ Underneath the lush atmosphere that was in the air, he felt a flash of chill. She had so very little idea of who he was, and less idea of who he was not.

She stood there, waiting, taking measured breaths, hands still tight on the back of the chair.

"Well," he said, unconsciously rubbing his missing finger, "I suppose you'd like me to lock the door?"

"Please." Her pulse quickened as she realized his acquiescence.

She watched him take the heavy key to the door and put it in the lock with a rattle. Before turning it, he came towards her. She figured this would be the start of the kissing and caresses, and closed her eyes, tilting her face up slightly, remembering past dances of first sensual touches.

She heard an amused sniff and felt cold fingers running down inside her bodice, under her corset and between her breasts. Her eyes flew open.

"Wait, what are you-?"

"Calm down, Alma, nothing's startin' yet. But I never lock myself in a room with someone without checkin' for weapons first." _As good a time as any,_ he thought, _to draw the lines between his and Bullock's ways._

Her mouth opened, then shut as he efficiently ran his fingers around her waistband and down her lower back. He had knelt and felt inside her boots and up her legs, over her stockings, before she could speak again.

"You don't trust me?"

He smiled. "I'm working on it."

He turned the key.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N

M for Al/Alma smut and shenanigans involving Alma wielding a knife for a change

**Part 3**

Alma adjusted her bodice as she watched him put the key back on his desk. Once…no, twice, when in distress, she had found sanctuary in this place. Trixie could scoff all she liked, but this man had known when to send for her child, when to send for her former lover, and how to give her the courage to walk back into danger. His ability to read others was uncanny.

It was curious, how he could be so astute in picking up on her needs, and then seem to deliberately juke in another direction. It was almost as if he recognized her desire to have control over this, but knew that she doubted her ability. The idea that he might be deliberately throwing challenges into something that could have been mundane and perfunctory intrigued her.

His stillness seemed another challenge now. He stood stolid, waiting. From her own experience, and from what she had seen from hidden corners of her childhood home, illicit lovers fell upon each other with enormous passion as soon as they were behind closed doors. His patience was confounding.

She saw his eyes flick towards the bedroom then back to her, and realized he was expecting her to be the agent of the beginning of this encounter. She glanced at the clock; time to leap, or admit this had been a poorly thought-out mistake. She took a deep breath, felt like she was riding up to a first jump.

"School's not out for another three hours, and I made arrangements at the bank to be absent," she said as she walked into his bedroom.

_Soundin' more sure of herself,_he thought, as he put up the papers he had been working on.

She turned, gathered herself again.

"Al."

He looked up, surprised at the use of his first name. She was standing by his bed.

"Bring the bottle." She nodded towards the whiskey on his desk.

He thought she was trying hard to look casual, but an anxious half-smile was breaking through.

He cocked his eyebrow and smiled as he gathered the bottle and glasses. _Knowin' she's out of her league, and havin' the guts to stay in the game…she's got sand, for all that she's got her loopy side._

His earlier preparations had readied him to replay a role from his youth, one that he thought he could recreate for her benefit. Not that he wouldn't enjoy himself, but she was the one in need here. Like Dan said, he had a saloonful of whores to choose from at any time. Alma, on the other hand, had no safe choices for distraction and relief. He didn't know why some people felt like they had to ascribe some deeper meaning to a physical tryst, but he hoped she'd get something of what she was looking for.

In his head, he ran through some of his tactics learned from his time spent helping a Chicago doctor treat women for 'hysteria", performing "pelvic massage" until "healing paroxysms" were brought about. A few of the bolder women had offered extra money for him to act like their lover before he diddled them until they came.

Most paid him with their husbands' money, freely given by the men to secure treatment that rendered their wives serene and calm-natured for a couple of weeks. That had been a lucrative and interesting season until the doctor's right arm recovered from his strain injuries.

_Kiss cheek, ear, neck, lips, then cup breast, fondle, whisper lies about their beauty_…the old steps were coming back to mind. He walked into the dim room, setting the requested bottle on the dresser. The rhythms of purchased seduction guided his movements as he filled two shot glasses without looking at them, keeping his eyes on her.

She was standing against the bed, eyes half-closed, lips parted, throwing out every signal she knew of that she was ready to be passionately swept up in his arms…then she saw something change in his look.

"What are you doing?"

It looked like a mask had dropped in front of him, pleasant enough but not real, movements careful, almost rehearsed.

He stopped moving towards her and leaned up against the bed, mildly annoyed she'd seen through him so quickly._ Maybe just try the truth, see what happened. Not like there was any money at stake._

"Alma, I don't have much, ah, experience in this kind of thing."

Her back stiffened at this. "Al, you live in a_ whorehouse_."

He rubbed his neck and hunted for the right words.

"Yeah… If you were workin' for me, we'd be done by now. But you're a respectable type of woman, and one that hasn't paid me for any particular services, and I've not paid for any services from you…truth be told, I'm a bit…cherry in this situation."

_Well, wasn't this just turning into a fine disaster?_

He just stood there, looking willing and still interested, even if uncomfortable …she thought he might actually be telling the truth. She made up her mind. She was not leaving this room in the same state in which she entered it. Another plunge into unfamiliar territory.

"Al, for heaven's sake, just…get undressed and lie down on the bed."

Her words surprised both of them. She turned and started unbuttoning her blouse. _This was becoming as clinical as a visit from Dr. Cochran, _she thought. Then she got the scent of musk and oranges again, and her shoulders began unstiffening. She breathed deeply, drawing the scent into her, and felt a little more ease. She steadied, thinking she…_they_…might have some success after all.

She stopped at her chemise, and turned, hesitant and feeling the need for some sign of approval. Al was lying on the high, sturdy bed, expectant, curious look on his face. Hands folded over his stomach, still wearing his gray tattered long johns. She thought of lifelong memories and inwardly shuddered.

"Is that…do you have any…less worn underclothes?"

He looked somewhat offended.

" I have new duds in my dresser, and what's that to you? I wasn't exactly expecting company when I got up this morning."

He was chagrined at having taken such care with his grooming and not thinking about his underclothes. It had been years since he had been in an environment where it mattered what one wore while fucking. _They can't be too bad,_ he thought. _She's still here and half-naked._

Alma felt almost ready to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, then looked closely at his face. As rough a man as this, she still sensed that he would not take laughter well. She thought about how she felt when made to look foolish, and a wave of empathy went through her.

And somewhere behind her hurt and need, she found a dark place that wondered if a woman who could make the cutthroat Al Swearengen discomfited…might have a strong and dangerous side to her as well. An interesting side, well worth exploring.

She came to the bed, her chemise reaching her thighs. She downed the poured shot of whiskey by the bed, feeling its heat as she gathered herself for a higher reckless jump.

Balancing with a knee against the mattress, she gracefully swung her leg over him until she was sitting over his lap, hard flesh beneath her.

"Move, please. I feel off-balance." She unconsciously pressed her inner knee and thigh into his hip, the way she would have guided a horse.

Steadying her with one hand, he shifted to his left so both her knees were firmly on the bed.

He continued to wait, wondering at her odd, cool tone.

She ran a finger around the ragged cuff of his underwear. Thought about that singular feeling when fully committed to a jump…

"May I have a knife, please?"

His eyes widened.

_The fuck?_

_A/N: The electric vibrator was invented in the late 1800s (maybe 1890?) by a doctor to relieve him and his colleagues from having to provide such pelvic massage. It's my fancy that such a doctor (if short on scruples), prior to the invention, might have hired a young man long on good looks and short on morals to help out. In my imagination, Al would be flummoxed by sex involving passionate feeling towards the other person, as all signs in canon point to sex being indelibly associated with commerce and/or his personal relief, with a few hints at sex & trust/friendship. Reviews, concrit, any and all feedback appreciated!_


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

"Christ, they have snaps, y'know. If you'll get up—"

"No." She was starting to enjoy herself. "You took a knife to my undergarments before. I think it's only fair I get to do the same."

_Well, this is…different_. He blew a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"We were running from a fucking _fire_ at the time, if you'll recall."

She waited, hand out. Her chemise had fallen off one shoulder, revealing smooth planes of throat and shoulder, light traceries of blue veins under the skin. She looked like a painting in a rich man's house.

He shrugged. "I can't believe I'm doing this." He pulled a small knife with a gleaming blade out of his nightstand, extended it handle first with his left hand, folding his right arm behind his pillow against the headboard, leaning his head back.

"Thank you."

She smiled as she shifted backwards, revealing the bottom snap. She popped the snap open, eyes drawn for a second to the thick black hair, then inserted the blade carefully under the fabric. He lay perfectly still as her knuckles ran over his skin, the faded cotton parting along the seam. His eyes turned darker as the blade was drawn closer to the snaps at the middle of his belly, then up to his chest. He could hear her breath coming faster as he tightened his grip on the small Derringer behind his pillow. She stopped.

He let out the breath he had been holding. He could still feel the path her fingers had followed up his body.

"Now what?"

"Be patient." She had been told to be patient so many times; it felt good to be the one saying it for a change.

She shifted to get a better angle, rubbing damp silk against him. He looked once at her eyes, dark and glittering, then back at her hand holding the knife. Moving more surely now, she ran the blade through the material over his chest, slicing along the seams in the arms, cutting hard at the cuffs. He gave an involuntary twitch as her knuckles ran over the sensitive inside of his upper arm.

"You ever filet anything…or anybody? You seem pretty fucking good at this."

"Hush, please." She turned on his body, pivoting until she was facing away from him. Her hands being out of sight, and so close to delicate areas, made him start to sweat, but his right hand stayed behind his pillow.

She turned and looked at him over her bare shoulder.

"I had no idea you'd be this big."

He was still thinking how to respond to that when she bent her head to her task again and carefully split the fabric down his legs, cutting the cuffs with a jerk. The smell of orange-wood and musk was stronger now. She turned back around, studying his naked skin and scattered black hair, so different from the last man she had seen naked. More bulk than lean, thickly muscled. _A bull, to Mr. Bullock's stallion_, she thought.

She looked at him with a serious expression and handed him back his knife, handle first. He noted with some surprise that his heart had started to beat faster, pulse racing like he'd just dodged a punch. He dropped the knife in the open drawer, then slowly pulled his right hand from behind his head, carefully laying the small pistol on the nightstand, eyes still on her face. He was expecting fear, or maybe anger, disappointment.

Alma smiled. "You're a careful man."

He nodded, amused at her acceptance. _The widow is not easily spooked, looks like._ "A trait that's served me well through the years."

He figured she'd want to start the kissing and such, although he was starting to think he really didn't know _what _the fuck she wanted. He reached up to put his arms around her. He felt her thighs and knees tighten against his hips.

"No. Keep still, please."

He shrugged and put his hands behind his head, relieved to just lie there, free to react without artifice.

Her eyes rose to his.

"More weapons?"

_Not easily spooked, but not incautious, either. _

"Nope. Just settling in for the ride."

More wriggles and stretches and her last layer of clothing was on the floor.

He could see how she had fucked with Bullock's head so bad. Taut thighs joining at an apex of thick black curls, now damp and hot; flat belly, smooth skin, tits firm and high. He'd put out twice his usual limit, maybe more, to buy a whore that looked that good. _Probably not what she was lookin' to hear…best keep that to myself._

"You look…really pretty, Alma." _Didn't see how he could go wrong with that._

She shushed him again as she lifted her hands to her hair. With a few twists and tugs, her wavy black hair started falling down her breasts and back. She leaned forward to put the pins on the table, grinding against him as she moved, the ends of her hair feathering along his belly and chest. She smiled as she felt him twitch underneath. He lifted himself to grind against her in turn. Sighing, she tilted her head back, swaths of silky black hair falling against his thighs and between his legs.

His skin felt shivery where she touched him. He hadn't recovered from the feelings he had been having while she cut his fuckin' clothes off. He still couldn't quite wrap his head around that experience, why it made sparks fly. He figured he'd probably fucked _some_body or other at least fifty, sixty times a year, with blow-jobs most days in between. How the hell could he be feeling anything so new and unusual? _And from an amateur, at that. _

Alma reached down and fondled him for a few seconds, then rose up on her knees, carefully positioning him at her entrance. He was already slippery from his own excitement…she remembered that part from before. She bit her lower lip at a flash of memory, looked at Al's now clenched hands, no longer so relaxed, one squeezing a fistful of bedsheet.

"Alma, _Jesus_…"

White hands on dark shoulders, she pushed down hard against him, groaning an "Oh, God" against the stretch as he filled her.

"Oh, _fuck_, Alma…_God_…" he rumbled between gritted teeth. He hadn't expected such a tight, hot sheath. Hadn't had anyone like that in years. Maybe never. Not with the hair and the pins and the knife and the looks and the graceful moves…he put his hands on her hips and quit thinking in words for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Alma's thighs were trembling. Muscles she hadn't used since her riding days were starting to protest. She had fallen forward, her weight on her arms, her face close to his rough cheek, breathing against his mouth. The soreness had passed and he was hitting something delightful inside of her. She'd gotten a rhythm of rocking at the top of his stroke, and grinding against his body at the bottom, almost duplicating the feelings she got from stroking and pressing herself to orgasm. She wasn't focused on that right now. It felt lovely just to be all in skin and wet and heat and a man's deep breathing. He was so…fleshy and hard and rough. _So different_.

He felt her start to quiver, thinking first she was shamming coming to hurry his finish, then came to his senses and realized she was tiring out.

"Get off me."

She looked at him in surprise, and then saw his sympathetic look. She lifted herself up off him and lay on her side, waiting to see what was next.

"Lie on your back."

She stretched out as he asked, feeling her thighs start to relax. She felt like she'd taken a drop or two of laudanum, all warm and floating.

"Alma." He sought her attention as she drifted in slow waves of physical sensation. "Reach behind your head."

She did so, feeling the sturdy posts in the middle of the headboard.

"You hold on to those."

She looked at his long black hair, damp with sweat, his mouth hard and serious. The sweet fresh scent of oranges had been blasted away by the smell of cedar and sex. With his hooded eyes almost black in the afternoon light, countenance shadowed and deeply lined, he looked positively satanic. She thought that, in a twisted way, that was quite a good look for him. He exuded a power that was palpable, amoral, and if she had been a completely decent woman, would have been frightening. It was a mark of her own conflicted character, she thought, that the image of his brutish bulk over her made her feel filled with molten gold, flowing red and blazing hot.

She met his eyes as she wrapped her hands around the posts, and smiled with languid challenge.

"Ready."

He almost smiled then, parting his lips, white teeth against swarthy skin. He rolled over onto her welcoming body, pushing deep into her slick heat, and started the hard relentless fucking he'd been imagining for weeks.

Her breath was coming in gasps, his body coming down hard on hers, pushing the air out of her lungs. If she hadn't been bracing herself with her hands she was sure she would have cracked her head on the headboard several times over. Now he was rubbing against her in different areas, especially nice when she was able to move her hips.

She tried to move with some type of erotic rhythm, but finally gave up against his force and wrapped her legs around his thighs. She was still getting enough friction in the right places. She could feel her belly start to wind, low and tight inside.

Eyes open but staring at nothing, breath coming in gasps, Al thrust deeper, raising himself off her chest. He wrapped one hand around hers, still gripping the posts. With a guttural groan he finished, jerking and shuddering a few times before rolling off of her, gasping, wiping sweat from his eyes.

She unwrapped her hands from the hard wooden posts and lay still, trying to get her breathing under control. Their fluids pooled beneath her as her pulse thudded in her temples. Her heart slowed and she finally felt like she could speak again. She took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh.

She turned to him and smiled. 'That was lovely." She stretched her legs. "Thanks for having me."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Funny." He returned her smile. "Thanks for invitin' me in."

"Funny." She stretched out the muscles along her sides, rocking her hips at the end.

He propped himself on his side, looking at her thoughtfully.

"Open your legs a little more."

"_Surely_ you must be joking." Even if he could be ready so soon, she could already tell she'd be sore by morning.

"Just…trust me."

She raised an eyebrow and did as he said.

Once he started, all the old stroking and circling rhythms, the reading of breathing and movement cues, it all came back to him. She must have been more willing to go with her sensations than the women he had serviced with treatments so long ago. It wasn't taking much at all.

She was whimpering, breath catching, and grabbing for the bedposts again, arching hips, back and finally her slender neck, as he stroked and moved in the folds around, and at the sides, then at the top of her most sensitive flesh. He was impressed at her responsiveness. The orgasmic spasms hit hard enough for her back to jerk completely off the bed as she bit hard against her lower lip. He could feel her insides clenching as she pushed against his hand. He thought he could feel her heartbeat there.

She looked at him with wide astonished eyes.

"My goodness…that was…I couldn't have done better…" she trailed off.

As she took deep breaths, lying there with the cool air between her legs, she felt another winding gathering, a tightening sensation.

"I wonder…would it be horribly greedy to ask that you do that again?"

Al laughed. "Now?" He ran his fingers over her stomach and down her side, then just below her navel, lightly.

"Yes, please." She braced herself again.

He flexed his fingers and started again, harder and faster this time. Second winds usually took a firmer touch, from what he remembered. One hand came off the headboard and fingernails dug into his shoulder. She buried her face in his chest as smaller, sharper spasms burst through her body. He pulled away as she whispered words he couldn't hear, finally going limp beside him.

Her eyes closed, lips parted, still breathing hard, she didn't notice he had gotten up from the bed until she felt him press a cold glass of water into her hand. She heard his low voice by her ear.

"You looked thirsty."

She nodded as she wrapped slim fingers around the glass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

"You've appointed this room quite well. " She caught a glimpse of the flowered pitcher and deep washbasin on its marble-topped stand as she pushed the last pins into her chignon.

He finished the stiff snaps of his new long johns, then reached for his pants. "Yeah, I have you to thank for that."

She turned, giving him a questioning look.

"I mean, you telling me what to look for, as far as nice furniture."

She pinned her hat onto her hair.

"You sure you're ready to face the world? You still look a little freshly fucked to me."

"Quite sure." She patted her hair. "One of the ladies who used to visit Father in his rooms once told me that if a lady's coif is impeccably neat, most people's eyes will stop there and not register higher color or altered gait."

He leaned back in his chair. "You've mentioned your father's lady friends before. Why do you suppose they presumed to give you instructions, information and the like?"

Her face turned cold as she continued to look in the mirror. "I suppose, knowing my father, they suspected I'd need to know such things at some point, and they didn't believe my mother would be a reliable source."

He waited as she pulled on her gloves.

"I need to go collect my daughter, but if you have any preliminary figures on your winter pasture proposal, I'd be happy to look over them tonight and discuss them with Mr. Starr first thing in the morning. Then perhaps a full meeting on the matter by Wednesday?"

"With the understandin' that this is very preliminary until I can sit down with Mr. Bullock and get more particulars about anticipated expenses."

"Of course. I hope you have a productive discussion." Al tried but failed to catch any bitter, bitchy underlying tone. Maybe this had been good for her mind as well as body.

She was buttoning her jacket as she walked past Dan at the bar. He noticed her heels weren't hitting the floor so hard now.

"Good meetin'?"

She gave him a little half-smile. "I found it so, but feel free to solicit Mr. Swearengen's opinion on the matter."

_Not for all the tea in fuckin' China_, he thought as he watched her leave.

He looked up at Al at the banister. Tried not to stare at the snow-white new long johns under Al's vest.

_Good, my ass… must have been one hell of a meetin', she can get him into new duds._  
>He shook his head and went back to stacking clean glasses.<p>

_Shaping up to be an interesting winter._


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

Alma's steps were faster than usual as she hurried towards the schoolhouse. The thoroughfare was still a nightmare of horses, men, and wagons as tents were giving way to structures hour by hour, it seemed like. Streets, and lots, and businesses operating out in the open all jumbled together with no order at all, as if a child's toy town had been dumped in a barrel, shaken a few times, then spilled out into a muddy back yard. A person would have to stand in one place and look closely to see any kind of order emerging, and no one she knew had that kind of time these days. Perhaps the men with pencils behind their ears and blueprints spread before them on rough plank tables could see it, but to Alma, Deadwood still looked like the site of a barely contained and on-going riot.

A frission of embarrassment shot through her as she came up on the schoolhouse, Sofia waiting on the porch with Mrs. Bullock_. I hope Father's mistress was right about personal tidiness and subterfuge,_she thought, as she walked up the few steps to the schoolhouse porch, striving to look apologetic yet nonchalant at the same time.

"Mrs. Bullock, am I late? I am so sorry…Sofia, shall we spend some time at the bank before going home? I'm afraid your mother is dreadfully behind in her duties today." She gave an awkward smile, looking from the tall blonde teacher to her small blonde child.

"Not terribly, Mrs. Ellsworth. Sofia's been working on her sums while we waited, so she'll be ahead of the others for tomorrow's work, won't you, Sofia?"

"I think so, Mrs. Bullock. I'm getting awfully good at my sums, aren't I?'

The teacher smiled kindly. "Yes, you've quite a fondness for numbers, young lady." Her face held a slightly wistful look as she looked down at the top of the earnest youngster's hair. Sums had come easily to William, as well.

She looked up at Alma, the smile leaving her face but lingering, just slightly, in her eyes. "Sofia's been so caught up in her work that she didn't see you coming to get her until you were almost on our doorstep. She'd been staring down the thoroughfare, watching for you to leave the bank since I let the children out." She put her hand on Sofia's shoulder and raised an eyebrow at the widow. Alma opened her mouth to start offering explanations, when Martha spoke again.

"But I told her that all the building and commotion might cause you to have to detour from your usual path, and then we started on our multiplication tables," she smiled. "And then there you were."

Alma grabbed the rope she thought the teacher had thrown her. "Yes, there were so many areas blocked, I had to come back around where Doctor Cochran's cabin used to be. Just as muddy, but fewer loaded wagons in my path."

Martha nodded in seeming approval at Alma following her lead. "I see. How is the Doctor? I know he's trying to work out of a tent still, and he's been kept awfully busy. So much need for one man to manage."

"I didn't…actually see Doctor Cochran. I'm sure the inevitable injuries that arise from all the building must keep him far too occupied to notice passersby."

Martha guessed she'd be unwise to mention Mrs. Ellsworth's detour to the Doctor when next she spoke with him. "I'm sure."

Alma smiled with gratitude at Mrs. Bullock and took Sofia's hand as they headed to the bank. Even with all the tangle of men and materials, the teacher noticed Mrs. Ellsworth was well able to navigate her way down the thoroughfare, staying in plain sight until she and the child reached the bank.

She locked up the schoolhouse, and decided if the widow was late again, she would tell Sofia it was getting too cool to wait on the porch. She would wait a bit before deciding what she ought to say to the mother, or Mr. Bullock. For now, though, she would focus on feeding her guests the evening meal and discussing the events of the day with her husband.

The bank was sheltered and operational, if nothing like it was before the fire. Materials for teller's cages and finishing the interior were stacked up to one side, leaving a clear path to the rough tables that served as counters. The huge safe stood solidly behind the tables, reminding customers of safety and dependability. The Bank of Deadwood was more than its building; it was capital that couldn't be burned away. More than the currency that survived, it was the records of deposit, loans, and payment that gave a sense of security to the customers. Even Alma's daily journals, begun with little purpose past keeping her mind occupied and track of her dope-free days, helped establish a trail of bank's business with the community. The visual backing of the community's finances was a comforting, hopeful sight.

None of that hopefulness was evident in Trixie's expression as Alma and Sofia came in the door. Mr. Star was nowhere to be seen. Trixie was arguing with a grubby man in front of a line of four other people, all tapping a foot or muttering with impatience. She had two—no, three—pencils stuck in her hair, loose strands straggling out of her braid. One hand was out to the man in front of her, handing him a paper to sign, while she argued with the man behind him.

"Well, sir, you can just—"She stopped in mid-sentence as she saw her employer." You can just take that up with the bank's owner, seein' as how you don't like my answer."

Trixie tamped down the blistering glare she had been saving for Alma all afternoon and smiled at Sofia, who sat like a little lady at the side of her mother's table. "Hey, darlin'. You have a good day at school?"

"Yes, Miss Trixie. I got to do extra numbers after, 'cause Mama was late. Teacher says I'm going to be ahead of the others tomorrow." She gave Trixie a sunny smile and started practicing again on a piece of scrap paper, catching her tongue between her teeth as she worked.

"Well, aren't you something?" Trixie's words were for the child, but the glare was for the mother. She lowered her tone. "Yeah, you're really something."

Alma talked with the dissatisfied customer, smoothing ruffled feathers over an expansion loan, approved four more building loans, cashed out a man's account who was ready to move out of town for the season, and entered two deposits of prospected gold. She wondered about these last, what with Hearst's name being on all the claims she knew about, but her duties were to weigh, calculate and deposit, not worry about provenance.

Five o'clock finally came, time to lock up the big safe and clear up the day's business. Alma was not looking forward to being alone with Trixie, but with any luck, Sofia's presence would be a buffer. Trying to head things off as she watched the petite blonde rattle pens and paper on her desk, she started first.

"I thought Mr. Star would be here."

Trixie wouldn't look at her. "Mr. Star was in need of tending to his business and keepin' the camp in hammers and nails, 'less you'd prefer roofs be held up with spit and twine."

"I thought Mr. Bullock—"

"Mr. Bullock was tryin' to get four wagonloads of brick situated and do some horse tradin' besides. He came lookin' for you, said he wanted to talk about some business, something about expenses and horse feed, but I told him you were likely talking business elsewhere today. "

She started removing pens from her hair and rubbing ink off her fingers. "I reckon we'll be sittin' down to a fine supper. All the time you've had in the middle of the day, I figured you'd be putting a roast in the oven, settin' bread to rise and the like."

Alma walked over to Trixie, moving her away from Sofia's hearing. "Trixie, please try to temper your disapproval. I'm a grown woman, no longer bound to any man, and I-" Her throat clenched as she thought of all the bindings now past.

"Goddammit, Alma, I don't care so much about what you're doin', but you've no right to up and leave me to cover for you and for Sol. Case you hadn't noticed, these are unusual days and nobody has time to take on your work while you go off and…." She looked carefully at Alma's eyes, face, and mouth. Her cheeks didn't bear signs of abrasion by afternoon stubble, nor did her lips look hard-used or particularly bitten. Still….

Studying her pupils, Trixie moved closer to Alma. "Well, at least it don't look like you backslid with the dope."

She sniffed the air near Alma's hair. Alma couldn't read her expression as she moved closer and took a deeper whiff.

"New cologne?"

Alma could hear Sofia scratching her pen against paper behind her in the silence. Trixie lowered her voice.

"New, from what you were wearin' this morning, is what I mean."

Alma looked around the room, avoiding Trixie's direct gaze.

"I suppose."

Trixie called back to Sofia. "Sweetheart, me and your mama'll be ready to go in another minute, okay?" She pulled a rolled cigarette out of her purse. "Okay if I have a smoke before we head back to your house?" She didn't wait for an answer as she walked out on the front steps of the bank, Alma behind her.

Expecting further upbraiding, Alma's eyes widened in surprise as Trixie gave her a look that was almost sympathetic. The same kind of look she had given her when Alma asked for certain herbs that time.

"Alma, as soon as I finish this, I'm gonna take some money off you and go get a basket from Miz Lou for our supper. First, though, let me give you some advice, or information, take it as you will."

Alma folded her hands and looked pleasantly inquisitive for the benefit of passersby. "Yes, Trixie?"

The former whore barely moved her mouth as she talked between drags on her cigarette, looking down at the raw new floorboards of the porch.

"You got to wash more than the obvious, if you're gonna be keeping company in the middle of the day. The man wears scent, you got to wash any skin that's come up against his, and the soap needs to be the same as you use at home."

A slow flush started in Alma's cheeks.

Trixie darted a quick look at the widow's face and continued, looking at the floor again.

"If he wears hair pomade, you gotta wash wherever that might've touched on you, as well. Especially if there's only one or two men in town that wears that type."

Trixie blew smoke away from Alma's face and looked at her closely.

"Now, with it comin' on cool, you'll be wearin' an outside jacket most days." Alma nodded, agreeable but not quite following.

"It might come about, that when you have a routine business meetin' with a man, you have occasion to let your jacket be hung on a peg next to the jacket of the man you're meetin' with, follow me?"

"I…think so."

"So…" She took a deep drag and blew smoke past Alma. "It might happen that his scent migrates, you might say, from him, to his coat, then from his coat to yours."

Alma tried to stop blushing from force of will. She could tell it wasn't working.

"That sounds… plausible."

Trixie stubbed out her cigarette. She looked back towards the Gem, the dark figure on the balcony backlit by office lamps. She felt like half her life, in a way, was up there hidden in those shadows.

"Yeah, it's, um…_plausible_, once, maybe twice, dependin' on who's noticing. I wouldn't count on it workin' much more than that." She took a deep breath and continued.

"And when it comes to somebody who's smelled some of those same smells for years…well, I wouldn't bother tryin' to explain it at all." She took the proffered bills from Alma's hand. "I would take care, though, to not make others suffer for my newfound recreation, if it were me."

"Now, will you be wanting chicken or ham?"

"Will Mr. Star and the Doctor be there for supper, Trixie?"

Trixie looked across the way, could make out her Jew in his bowler hat, head bent over large papers held down on a table by an unfamiliar man. "Maybe. That one looks like he might be finishing up with that fellow. With Doc Cochran...I guess we'll know when we see him, but he's likely to need to eat when he does come in."

"The chicken, I think, and whatever vegetables she has to offer." She turned to the interior of the bank. "Sofia, will you help me make biscuits for our supper?"

Sofia put up her schoolwork with a grin, and walked over to the two women she loved most in the world. "You start the oven, mama, and I'll make the biscuits. Mrs. Bullock showed me how." Trixie stroked her hair and gave Alma an almost older-sisterly smile over Sofia's head.

Al watched the women finish their conversation and head in different directions, and wondered briefly what they had been talking about. He replaced his reading glasses as he went back inside to recheck his accounts and calculations.


End file.
